to be or not to be| sixth year | draco malfoy

high

"why'd you only call me when you're high?"
-

Malfoy Manor – Late Summer

The house groaned with secrets.

Moonlight spilled across the marble floor, casting long, skeletal shadows that crawled up the walls like ghosts. Somewhere deep within the estate, a door clicked shut. The chandelier above the drawing room swung ever so slightly, though no wind moved the curtains.

In the west wing, Draco Malfoy sat hunched on a velvet settee, his face buried in his hands. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, collar damp with sweat. The dark circles under his eyes had become near-permanent fixtures, haunting and hollow. He hadn't slept through the night in weeks.

From the hallway, soft footsteps approached. Narcissa entered like a wraith — elegant and pale in a silver dressing gown, hair swept back in a tight chignon. She took one look at her son and crossed to him without a word, sitting beside him. Her hand reached instinctively for his hair, brushing it back from his forehead the way she had when he was small and feverish.

He didn't flinch. He didn't speak.

Only when she said his name — softly, like breaking ice — did he finally look up.

"Draco."

His eyes were red. His hands trembled.

"I didn't ask for any of this," he whispered, still remembering how humiliating it was to be paraded in the Daily Prophet after his father foolishly revealed that he had been working for Voldemort all these years.

Narcissa said nothing. She didn't need to. Her son had been slipping for months, and she had felt it in her bones — the way mothers feel storms before they come. "He's giving me something. Something big. I can feel it. He keeps looking at me like—like he's already watching me fail." he spoke.

He gave a bitter, humorless laugh.

"Maybe he wants me to."

Narcissa reached for his hand, wrapping it in both of hers. "You are strong enough."

"That's not the point!" Draco snapped, then winced at the sharpness of his own voice. He looked away, tone dropping back to a whisper. "He's not testing my strength. He's trying to see how long it takes to break me. To prove that we're nothing but tools."

He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. The garden outside was swathed in shadow, silver light catching on the wrought-iron fence beyond. He rested his forehead against the glass.

"There's someone," he said after a long silence. "Someone I care about."

Narcissa said nothing, waiting.

"I've had... things before. Stupid things. Flings. Attention. It never meant anything."

He exhaled slowly.

"But she's different. She's... nothing I've ever felt before."

Narcissa's lips parted slightly, her eyes narrowing—not with judgment, but recognition.

Draco closed his eyes.

"When she looks at me, it's like—like she sees past all of it. Past the name. The family. The pureblood mask. She sees me. The real me. And she doesn't flinch."

He turned slowly to face his mother. The light from the window carved sharp angles across his face. He looked older than his years. Hollowed out.

"She makes me want to be... better. Even if I don't know what that means."

"Who is she?" Narcissa asked quietly.

He hesitated.

Then: "Violet. Violet Goldhorn."